That Kind of Day
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Watson is having one of those days-it started with insomnia and got worse from there.


Written for the LiveJournal community Watsons_Woes for their July Writing Prompts challenge. The prompt for day 13 was: _One of those days: Murphy's Law says that when things can go wrong, they will._

Part of my Spencer-verse (primarily canon with a few details borrowed from the Granada TV series).

* * *

_That Kind of Day_

The day started with an insomnia that had me awake for an hour-long stretch for every fifteen or twenty minutes I was able to doze. This pattern lasted from about midnight until I realized I would find no better sleep that morning and rose for the day around seven o'clock.

The first pair of boots I started to put on had dried mud on the instep that I hadn't realized was there, so I took them off and wore a different pair so I could ask Mrs. Hudson about a brush for them.

As soon as I descended the stairs, I discovered a pile of something wet and mushy on the carpet. I sighed and went past it to put my shoes by the door and fetch some rags from the cabinet in the bathroom; Mrs. Hudson had wisely left some there for me just in case this sort of accident occurred. I supposed that having Spencer for a year without such an incident was a mark in his favor.

As if on cue, Spencer found me as I returned to his mess and rubbed against me, meowing. "Did something you ate disagree with you?" I asked him as I bent to scratch his head. He rubbed his face against my hand and purred. I knelt to pick up what I could of the mess and felt the knee of my trousers give way. There must have been a small tear I hadn't noticed when dressing, for the cloth was not yet worn enough to split on its own. I took a deep breath, resigning myself to the fact that it was going to be That Kind of Day and cleaned up the hairball-and-bits-of-food off the carpet.

* * *

It was nearly nine o'clock by the time I finished cleaning the carpet and changing my trousers. I entered the sitting room with relief that I would finally be able to eat my breakfast.

But it was not to be. Holmes greeted my arrival with an impatient, "There you are at last! Come, we have a case." He thrust my coat and hat at me-he already had his on-and waited near the door with my cane. I took a moment after donning my coat to grab a piece of toast from the table and ate it quickly as we left the house into a brooding, grey atmosphere that promised at least one downpour before the day was out.

The case was outside the city itself, so the cab took us to the train station. We arrived at the station to find that the early train had been delayed by mechanical problems and a replacement had still not been supplied, so when our train pulled in to the station, there were double the usual number of passengers waiting.

Holmes insisted that we catch this train, so we ended up sharing a carriage with four other people-Holmes stood and let me sit in consideration of my aching leg. Due to the crowding of the train, I could not ask about the case during the hour-long ride to our destination.

When we arrived, Lestrade was waiting, so I could not ask then, either. As a result, I tagged along for the day having very little idea what exactly was going on. That there had been a murder was obvious by Lestrade's presence. Holmes knew more than he would say as always, and I keenly felt the lack of our usual conversation about the case.

Holmes' investigations had us outside quite frequently, which naturally meant we were outdoors for two of the three downpours that occurred over the course of the day. Sorely feeling my lack of breakfast, I insisted that we have a bite of lunch at the local pub, but the fare was visually unappealing and tasted like sand baked with clay.

The case was resolved by sundown-or at least, the time the sun would have gone down, had it been visible-but naturally our trip back didn't go smoothly. The train to London had to stop midway on account of a freight train that had derailed while crossing the tracks used by our train. Fortunately we were within the limits of London at that point, so it was possible to catch a cab for the remainder of our journey, though we allowed the women and elderly passengers ahead of us in line, which meant we waited for probably close to an hour for our turn to come.

I collapsed onto my seat with a sigh of relief as the cab pulled away from the station. It started raining again as the carriage rattled through the nearly empty streets, but I cared only that we were headed home to dinner and bed. Holmes remained silent during the long ride, perhaps being considerate of my weariness and tendency toward a short temper under this sort of circumstance.

I half expected the cab to get into an accident half a block from Baker Street, but we made it to our front door without incident. Holmes climbed down first to pay for the cab, allowing me to take my time to coax my stiff limbs into movement.

As I might have expected, given how the rest of the day went, I slipped as my first foot tried to gain traction on the slick pavement. I tried to catch myself on the cab door, but all I got was a wrenched right shoulder and wrist for my trouble. I landed firmly on the ground, my head narrowly missing striking the side of the carriage.

Holmes hurried to my side and helped me up, fortuitously grasping my uninjured arm. He remained with me as I limped into the house and up the stairs, headed for the sitting room. We passed Mrs. Hudson, who promised to bring our supper up momentarily. I sat on the settee and asked Holmes to fetch my bag; while he did, I gritted my teeth and palpated both my shoulder and my wrist. Nothing broken, which was fortunate, but I would need to take it easy for a while.

When Holmes set my bag beside me, I drew out a bandage and a sling. I clumsily started bandaging my wrist-it is difficult to wrap one's dominant wrist with the other hand-then a pair of long, thin hands stopped me. "Allow me. I can follow your directions."

I weighed my options, smelled the stew that Mrs. Hudson was setting on the table, and agreed. Holmes' hands were gentle as he put the bandage on, then tied the sling behind my neck.

"Will you be able to manage your supper one-handed?" Holmes asked, only half serious.

I was able, and ate with unbecoming speed, only making a bit of a mess due to wielding my utensils with my off hand. Once my stomach was satisfied, I turned my thoughts to my bed with the fervent hope that the day's events would at least allow me to sleep through the night.

"Good night, Holmes," I said, heading toward the stairs where Spencer was yawning while he waited for me.

"Good night, Watson. Will you need help changing? Or do you need to take anything to help you sleep?"

I was touched by his thoughtfulness accepted his help in mixing a mild pain draught, since I was likely to start feeling the pain after I stopped moving around and had nothing else to distract me. I refused his help in changing, for my shoulder was not so bad off that I could not move it; the sling was simply a prudent measure to keep myself from doing too much with it.

Changing out of my clothes did take longer than usual, but I managed without mishap. I sank into my bed with a grateful sigh, and patted Spencer as he stepped onto the pillow beside my head. After a moment's pacing around, he settled half on the pillow and half on my sore shoulder, his warm weight and his purring a definite comfort as I slipped into sleep.


End file.
